Page 59 of Firefly Embers

“Terrified,” I choked out, the word catching in my throat as I fought for each labored breath. I focused on my box breathing again, feeling yet another panic attack rising to the surface. I hated feeling like everything I’d built by coming here was slowly crumbling around me.

Dr. Langford and I had recently discussed the possibility of setbacks in my therapy. Healing from trauma was not linear.

The key to successful healing wasn’t curing the bad days so that they never showed up. It was about focusing on the good days when they came and taking the bad days one minute at a time.

Healing meant creating an environment where there were more ‌good days than ‌bad. The bad days would come, but knowing how to fight through them was the key.

“Feeling worried and scared about this is completely normal. What are you most scared of?” she prodded.

I hung my head as I whispered, “What happens if I get back on a horse and fuck my back up worse, ending up in a wheelchair for the rest of my life?”

“That is certainly a terrifying possibility. But how would you feel if you got back on a horse and nothing like that ever happened?”

I turned her challenge over in my mind. I could almost feel the wind whipping around me as I envisioned myself riding through the ranch, letting Joker take me out to the farthest parts of the property. I could feel the strong muscles of his haunches extending and contracting as he pushed himself to his limits, running wild and free through the fields.

A sense of calm washed over me at the prospect of being able to feel the freedom I so desperately craved every time I was on the back of a horse.

“Free. I would feel free.”

Her tight-lipped smile was hard to miss as she jotted a couple of things down in her notebook. She wasn’t giving much away, trying to keep a professional demeanor, but I could tell she was proud, and that filled me with an effervescent sense of joy.

“Now, let’s talk about what is going to have to happen to make sure you can get back on a horse.”

I nodded, wishing I had something of my own to take notes on. I wanted to do this right so that the possibility of anything going wrong was minimal.

“The neurosurgeon and orthopedic specialist agreed that your lower spine and the surrounding muscles are going to need strengthening. They suggested some intense physical therapy over the next two weeks you’re with us, and additional sessions once you’re back home. They brought up your past rodeo injury where you twisted wrong getting out of the saddle, is that right?”

That had been the moment I knew it was time for me to retire from the rodeo. I had spent the majority of my adult life focusing on rodeo events. I wasn’t crazy enough to put myself on the back of a bucking horse or a pissed-off bull, but I knew rodeo was my calling.

Sterling’s dad had taught me how to rope, and I was damn good at it. I’d used my skills time and time again to help wrangle cattle on their family ranch when they needed to move herds from one pasture to the next. When his dad’s small-time sponsors caught wind of my ability to rope well, they funded my first big event.

One event turned into two, two turned into qualifying, qualifying turned into championships, and it all culminated with the NFR in Las Vegas when I was twenty-five. I had poured myself into training, telling myself I was going to bring home the championship buckle and winnings for the ranch.

That morning, something had felt off, but I ignored it, pushing back the thoughts and focusing on getting in my head for what I needed to do. For some reason, though, I couldn’t shake the gut feeling that something wasn’t right.

When Joker and I lined up in the chute on the timed end of the arena, waiting for the gate to open and the calf to cross over the scoreline, breaking the barrier rope to signal our predetermined go time, there was a weird tension in both of our movements.

We normally worked in tandem, feeding off each other’s energy. We had been training together for my entire career, so I knew something was off the moment we lined up and readied ourselves.

When the chute opened, our sights homed in on that calf, waiting for it to cross the barrier rope. Once it did, we shot out like a light, and I swung my lasso over the calf’s neck with ease.

Everything seemed to be lining up for a perfect score until I stepped out of the saddle and onto the ground to tie the calf down.

I twisted awkwardly when my boot got stuck in a rogue strap on Joker’s haunch, and I lunged forward, the speed and momentum of my movement twisting my lower back at an odd angle.

The doctors told me that, with consistent chiropractic care and a long stint of physical therapy, I could go back to riding professionally, but I knew in my heart that I was done.

“Yeah, that’s right. It was my last professional ride.”

She nodded again, writing something down in her notebook.

“They mentioned you were given the opportunity for scheduled chiropractic care and physical therapy that would have let you continue riding professionally. What made you decide to stop?”

“My family needed me. Pops and Max were working their asses off to keep things running around the ranch, trying to make ends meet. I knew it was my time to pull my weight instead of chasing buckles.”

“And so, you opened a training center on the ranch for up-and-coming rodeo stars.”

I nodded. Opening a training facility had been the best of both worlds. I got to continue doing what I loved—shaping the next generation of rodeo cowboys and cowgirls. I got to be around my family and still bring in a consistent income to the ranch.